


How... Ugh, Nevermind

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Parentlock, Pre-Slash, Translation From Personal Fic, johnlock implied - Freeform, post-Return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4559877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew Sherlock was back, alive, and safe. He just wasn't sure he could deal with the reality of him. Between getting over Mary's betrayal and raising their baby, he didn't have much time for anything else. But Sherlock is as Sherlock does and he'd be lost without his Blogger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How... Ugh, Nevermind

**Author's Note:**

> Another spontaneous translation from a personal fic trying to spark something better. Just an exercise.

The idea of Sherlock Holmes' miraculous return from the dead and the reality of it were definitely two different things. Several lifetimes had been lived with an undertone of a grief strong enough to transcend them all, hungry enough to take in all that was added to it like some great black hole. Eventually there was a moving on of sorts. Though John had gotten much better at visiting Mrs. Hudson faithfully after the Mary debacle, he still couldn't live at Baker Street anymore either. He made sure Mycroft paid every last bill, every time they came due until he could no longer bear the thought of calling the bureaucrat one more time to make sure, though it was no doubt set to automatically draft from deep unknown accounts. He'd attempted to do the same for John, but his refusal was almost violently vehement. He'd look after himself and the child as long as what he saw as Sherlock's legacy was properly preserved.

 

   

Mycroft was somewhat forgiven for his crimes against his brother when Mary Watson (nee, Morstan but not really), who'd rescued John from a life of loneliness and apathy turned out to be some sort of rogue agent of unknown origin. John was made to endure the unfolding of segments of her past as she gestated, unsure if even the child was actually his. How she'd gotten so close to him was something of a mystery in and of itself; one that only one person could have solved and he was dead. 

 

At the time. 

   

So Mycroft stepped in, helped arrange for her to have all rights to the child revoked and be taken into custody as soon as she was physically fit to be transferred. This happened after he wheeled her through the hospital doors, an agent dressed as a nurse transferring the child into his arms after a forehead kiss and helping her into the back of a windowless van. John only wished she would have actually disappeared the way only the government being involved could make happen. Or, even easier, met her end within the prison walls. He knew the older Holmes brother could have arranged it but supposed that sort of thing was usually saved for covering up royal mishaps or whatever. John accepted what he needed most, grudgingly thanking him for all he had done. John Watson's mother didn't raise an ungrateful fool. A fool, perhaps, but not an ungrateful one.

   

But then Sherlock was back and he panicked. John didn't want him to know that he had kept the result of such a horrible event, the betrayal of his adoration and abuse of his loyalty. If he was honest with himself, the only thing that kept him from immediately putting the Browning barrel to his head and pulling the trigger with no regrets this time, was the pregnancy and subsequent result. He poured every ounce of whatever he had left into that child from the moment he learned of its existence. It made it so he was able to withstand Mary for the remainder of the time he had to and no regrets when they parted. But Sherlock scoffing at his decision was somehow something he couldn't immediately handle. He was just recently able to wean himself off of fantasizing that he was somehow Sherlock's baby. He even put aside his life long intention that if he had a son he would name him for Winnie The Pooh's best friend so he could name him for his own. Despite everything, Sherlock was still that and, as he came to realize when the dust settled and he was alone with a newborn bearing the same name, probably something more.

   

So he took his cue from Lestrade. He waited until he initially forgave Sherlock for what he'd done. It took all of a week, a full night of it Lestrade alternately hugging and kicking Sherlock's arse. He then planned to visit Baker Street less often, not even wanting to come in contact with Sherlock until he'd figured out a few things. John couldn't keep the baby from Mrs. Hudson who had given up the idea of ever having grandchildren until now. He would now have a cab bring her directly to the near by two-storeyed flat the Watson's had originally shared instead of meeting Mrs. Hudson in the old apartments. The universe had other plans, however and it never consulted with John first. Stupid universe.

   

At least Mrs. Hudson gave him a head's up phone call. John was preparing to take the baby to see Mrs. Hudson anyway in a rare home visit as Sherlock was supposed to be out. He was apparently on his way to John's and, not for the first time, Mrs. Hudson advised him to wait for Sherlock, to talk to him. John knew it was what he wanted of him, but he just couldn't yet. He replied in two words to that effect, and hung up after a promise to see her soon as he gave the diaper bag a final check and set about finding where he had tossed the six month old's outerwear onesie, the one that made him look like his favourite Disney bear. He remembered having just washed it and put Baby Sherlock, as he was dubbed, in his bouncy chair to retrieve it warm from the dryer. It was his favourite place besides being held and fawned over.

   

John's heart leapt into his throat where it stopped for a moment before nearly choking him with its pounding. The bouncy chair had stopped the slight squeaking sounds it made when it was being used for its intended purpose because before it, squatted a very real, very much alive Sherlock Holmes having a staring contest with his namesake. John Of course followed his progress in the papers and on the news and the actual truth of his re-emergence through mutual friends, but to have him here, to be able to  _smell_  him was beyond what his mind could handle at the moment. He thought he must have looked the personification of Mycroft's 'Goldfish' description of the general populace, his mouth opening and closing helplessly, releasing only bubbles of sound instead of coherent words.

   

"His maternal grandmother is of Scottish decent with blue eyes. Hence the heterochromia though his is more inclined to grey because of the contribution of your dark blue than blue and green. It manifests differently in each person of course. The way his features have come in, I could almost be his father. Though it's physically impossible for her to have acquired a sample with which to impregnate herself." He finally looked up. "John?" The world narrowed down to a pinpoint in the dark then only blackness. A moment later John was laid out on the couch, staring up into eyes the colour of the best part of an English country Summer day. John smiled softly at the concern in them then suddenly remembered this wasn't one of his night or daydreams. He wasn't going to be kissed. That wasn't romantic adulation in his eyes. 

 

Oh yeah and also, he'd come back from the dead and was currently holding John's face and oh god the baby! 

 

"He's fine. You were only out for a moment," Sherlock reassured him. John sat up so fast he nearly knocked their heads together. His reflexes were as sharp as ever. John then stood, snatched the baby out of his seat and clutched him. Baby Sherlock protested this by becoming jello-like, wriggling and straining his neck to be moved and re-settled in a position in which he could continue looking his fill of the interesting pale stranger. He'd seen his picture many times and was fascinated with the DVDs of the man's past exploits. 

   

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Sherlock asked. "If you faint again you may hurt him."

   

"I'm not going to faint. Again." John finally found his voice, but it retained a ragged quality he didn't care for. He finally gave in and turned Baby Sherlock to face out. He stilled as he looked around then spotted the subject of his interest once more, grinned toothlessly and began kicking his legs and flailing his arms, making triumphant sounds. It was fucking adorable.

   

So was Sherlock. His mop of black curls was a bit shorter and John thought he'd have lost more weight without him there to pester him about caring for his "transport", but he seemed to have packed a few  _more_  pounds of muscle onto his frame and he wore it well. John thought his shirt buttons were in trouble before... Sherlock's face was sporting a few more lines than two years previously. His lip was nearly finished healing from where Lestrade had busted it weeks ago. 

 

But his eyes were the same. 

 

His posture the same overwhelming, looming thing. He still had on his wool greatcoat though it was unbuttoned. There was so much the same, John wanted to scream and cry and punch him and hold him for hours.

   

"I wanted to ap-" he began but John quickly found some more words.

   

"No shut up!" Surprisingly, he did. "I don't want to hear anything else right now but the answer to why you're here." He put his hands, palms pressed together, up to his lush bottom lip. "No. None of that posturing bullshit. Just be honest. For once." His hands dropped defeatedly and he looked out of the window a moment longer.

   

"Moriarty had to be stopped and I was the only one who-"

   

"Get out," he said coldly, completely out of patience. 

   

"I did it for you." He paused, checking John's body language for direction. "And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade." That sounded closer to the real truth. "You're the first one I've told." He rightfully took John's silence as the desire to hear more, a desire John himself wasn't even aware of at first. "It was his endgame. I die in shame or the snipers he already had in place would take you out."

   

"Mycroft told me he'd had them dealt with, that you'd predicted this outcome among many others. Blah blah blah secret government codeword  _bullshit_! It doesn't explain why you're here, in this house, right now."

   

"Mycroft told you, too? Interesting."

 

"Out!" His blood boiled to the point he could almost feel steam physically coming out of his ears. At the same time his heart throbbed uncontrollably, its ache having a completely different tone than that of his mind.

 

"I saw a few of his things in Mrs. Hudson's flat," he said in a rush, indicating Baby Sherlock with a glance. She has photos of him all over and no one would tell me why you didn't live there anymore. Turned out you had all... moved on." John was a bit more furious at this. How dare he give him sympathy pains. Sherlock was the one that left and stayed gone! 

   

"What the hell did you expect us to do, Sherlock?" John almost shrieked. The baby turned his head toward his father upon hearing his name but went right back to examining his new friend.

   

"Oh for God's sake you'll burst the child's eardrums. Give." Before he could get over his shock enough to respond in any way, Sherlock had crossed over to him in two strides of his long, lean, expensively clad legs and plucked him from John's arms. Baby Sherlock gleefully poked his nose with a chubby finger several times. He frowned in confusion as it did not make the proper sound everyone else's always did. It was so ludicrous John couldn't help the huff of laughter as he wiped his face of petulant tears he was suddenly aware of.

   

"Say 'beep'," John sniffed.

   

"What?"

   

"When he jabs your nose like that, you're supposed to say 'beep'."

   

"'Beep?' Of all the ridiculous..." But Baby Sherlock continued relentlessly. "For God's sake.  _Beep_." Satisfied, Baby grinned then went in for a taste assessment as to what may have gone wrong with the first attempts. Sherlock senior grumbled and sighed but allowed him his exploration, even letting him pull hair. John got a perfect shot of it on his phone which of course he insisted be deleted. It was. Right after he'd sent it to Greg, who'd texted his intentions to go right out and have it made into an eight by ten glossy with a new frame and everything for his office, Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock's parents. 

   

By then John would have been at Mrs. Hudson's already, as 221 Baker Street was only a few blocks away, since it was thought that Sherlock would have been out for the day on a case. So when Baby Sherlock began making his hungry noises, he sighed and dug in the little cooler inside the diaper bag, thinking it was convenient that he'd just boiled tea water, so it was still hot enough to thaw the breast milk. Sherlock followed him about during this process, his namesake still in his arms, curious as to what John was about to do until a clean, oddly-shaped bottle was extracted from the cupboard. He then averted his eyes.

   

"It's fine, Sherlock. I'm not shy about feeding him in front of people, I just refuse to wear the holster this is built for.  _She_..., he said bitterly, "thought it would be a laugh to get one made to look like breasts." Sherlock blinked at him for a long time as he set everything up, then joined him on the couch.

   

"Breast is best, as they say," Sherlock stated, clearing his throat.

   

"Look at you being all 'girl power' and everything." 

   

"Yes well I have long held the idea-"

   

"Sherlock," John warned, his tone indicating he knew an impending lie. 

   

"I saw it in an advertisement," he said finally. John nodded. "I really am all for womens' equality, though. My mother was a pioneer in mathematics before she decided to have a family." The comfortable banter was reminiscent of their days back at Baker Street and John ached again for a moment. There was something...  _more_  to it. Sherlock never talked about his parents, all evidence of his childhood was pulled from his interactions with Mycroft and his behaviour as an adult.

    

The genius's mind went far away as he observed the feeding process closely. It was an expression he wore often when he was assessing John's willingness to be subject to sating his curiosity about things. He'd always begin by calling John more logical than anyone else because, if there was no rational reason for him not to participate in a harmless experiment then he would. John had given him samples of almost everything and saw it coming. "What did you want to know?" He gave him an assessing look and, finding John was serious and not upset by his curiosity(still a bit surprised by the fact that it still applied even now)he asked his questions.

   

"What do you do if he doesn't consume all the milk?"

   

"I freeze it for emergencies or give it back to the milk banks before it expires if it seems I won't be using it in time."

   

"There are... milk banks?" The top of his noble nose crinkled adorably in near disbelief.

   

"Yeah. It's beneficial to sick newborns in hospitals or people who have trouble producing or too many babies at once. Things like that."

   

"That's... very interesting. You're ever the philanthropist."

   

"Not really," John said with earnestness. "If I have, there's no reason deserving others shouldn't if I can provide. It's the only way I could feed him the best in the first place."

   

"Am I? Deserving, I mean. Of your... forgiveness."

   

"Sherlock-" He supposed, however, if they were going to do this, it was best done whilst at his most calm. It was always a sort of break, feeding the baby, a forced rest from the rest of the world. Yes he was always focused on the child's health, safety, amusement, and education, but this was something a bit different. It was almost like meditation.

   

"I had no idea you all would be so affected!" Sherlock threw up his hands with an expression on his face so earnest it nearly broke John's already fragile heart. "You all seem so... And  _you..._  you helped everyone. You got back on your feet and helped Lestrade and found Mary. I mean, but for a few bumps in the road, it seems to have turned out alright." Despite it being the understatement of the century, it was the truth. "You helped Mrs. Hudson with everything from building upkeep to providing her with someone on which to lavish her attentions." 

   

"Yes because we had this baby specifically for Mrs. Hudson," John said with a sardonic twitch of his lips.

   

"In a way, yes." He was ever the surprise and not so surprising. The shock usually lay in how much he actually understood human emotion despite his loud declarations about being above all of it. He was actually extremely emotional which is why it made sense he tried so hard to control them. When John likened him to Spock, he wasn't at all wrong.

   

"Please tell me how you came to that conclusion."

   

"When you were in the process of making the decision on whether or not to raise the child even if you weren't the father, Mrs. Hudson having loads of "foster children" yet no grandchildren was a factor." John nodded slowly, unable to look at him anymore. "Mycroft was complaining about how little aid you would take after your... ordeal," he plowed on, "even though it was obvious you had great need, and how you've been trying to repay him. The sentiment of it all is rather appalling. I didn't think he had it in him."  

   

"I will get to work on believing how much you hate it right after you change back to your normal voice when addressing the baby instead of the one you're using now and let go of his foot." Sherlock bolted upright, not having realized he'd leaned toward the contently nursing infant with the barest hint of a smile and climbing register.

   

"Yes... well... I  _did_  say that it was Mycroft complaining." He straightened his jacket cuffs and cleared his throat a bit. The two men sat in silence, Sherlock retrieving the remote from off of the coffee table and flipping on the telly in order to appear as if he was browsing channels but his eyes kept being drawn back to John. Finally he glued his eyes to the screen purposefully. "I  _am_  sorry." John straightened up a bit but neither one of them looked at each other now, taking solace in mindless entertainment. "That you were upset and that this..." he indicated the baby and the controversy surrounding him with a graceful swipe of his hand, " _happened_  to you. I honestly don't know why this-and I use the term loosely- _person_  is still drawing breath on the taxpayer's shilling." Sherlock echoing his own heart's sentiments, John's chest hurt again, but it was a good pain; a camaraderie.

   

"Because we don't have the death penalty here."

   

"Yes but Mycroft-"

   

"No!" John said sharply, apologetically gentling his tone when the baby jumped. "No, Sherlock. your brother has gone to enough trouble." The consulting detective was quiet again, brain churning.

   

"You're still afraid." He didn't have to clarify, that it was of the fact that, as long as Mary was alive, there was a chance, however small, that she could return for Baby Sherlock.

   

"Yes. Terrified."

   

"And as long as you're scared, you won't come back to Baker Street."

   

"What would I do with this place?"

   

"Irrelevant."

   

"Sherlock-"

   

"If I make absolutely sure that there is no longer anything to fear from her, will you come back?"

   

"Wh..." The thing was, John couldn't outright say 'no', even though he was pretty sure that's what the answer was. It wasn't his stupidly cute face, an expression of genuine pleading on it, or the baby, wetly grinning at him around the nipple in what John was sure was some sort of conspiracy. John had no idea what it was, honestly, only that Sherlock had somehow gotten the baby to turn against him. "Why?"

   

" _Why_? What an idiotic question."

   

"Indulge me."

   

"You're... important. You're necessary. This... person... these people took you away from me and you know how possessive I get with my...friends. I don't have many to spare."

   

"You have a legion now. Your homeless network and Molly and Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and Greg-"

 

"Who?"

 

"Lestrade, you berk," John sighed. "You don't need me." And there it was, the reason he couldn't go back to Baker Street even now that Sherlock had come back. 

 

With another long, searching look, Sherlock stood abruptly and made to leave. John was surprised with himself for nearly panicking, standing as well but unable to figure out what to say. He paused at hearing John rise, however. He could have said he did need John, no matter how much he'd disbelieve it. The first three on the list he'd mentioned had apparently all been in on the 'suicide' ruse. Instead, Sherlock said,

 

"Mrs. Hudson would be disappointed if you didn't show."

 

John almost physically felt his resolve beginning to wilt in the heat thrown off by the furnace of Sherlock's mind, as he gently stuffed the baby into his outerwear. When he thought about it, 'not a good idea' had never really stopped them before. 

 

When they were together.

 

And that was the key, wasn't it?

 

He sighed, taking up the various things needed when stepping out the door with a small child, smirking at the fact that Sherlock had commandeered the baby as soon as John had finished dressing him and turned to reach for the diaper bag.


End file.
